


from smoke and ashes

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Until ACOFAS, Warnings May Change, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: It’s been five years since the ending of the Hybern War. Sometimes, for Feyre and her family, it feels like it was only yesterday. Life goes on, and with it, so comes change. Prythian has found a tenuous peace amongst its Lords and Lady, but when an assassin appears in Velaris, the Inner Circle begins to wonder just how honest that peace really is.
Relationships: Azriel/Original Character, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	1. ELAIN

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know. another long-form? this idea has been in the works for like a year now, but i kept picking it up and putting it down. i figured it was time that it got to see the light of day... so! let me know what you think?
> 
>  **warnings: ptsd, abuse and trauma, violence, conception/fertility issues, sex, and scenes including rape.** please, be advised, and feel free to message me with any questions or concerns. i’m more than happy to tell you which scenes to skip, if that’s something you’d want/need. i'm on tumblr @noodlecatposts, if you have questions.

# ELAIN’S ROUTINE

#### VELARIS | A WARM SUMMER DAY

I’ve... adjusted to this new life of mine.

It helps, I think, to maintain something of a schedule for myself, some normality. I like to spend my early mornings making bread and breakfast with Nuala and Cerridwen. The twins are quiet creatures, often speaking to each other with a look or a simple hand gesture, and I like that. There is no fuss, just the smell of yeast proofing and eggs frying.

I usually venture out to the gardens afterward. In the winter, I spend less time outside due to the weather, and instead, I busy myself with the plants I've brought indoors, ones that can't survive the current heat or those that I just like as decoration in the house. Feyre seems to have no preference in the matter of indoor greenery, and Rhys declared he was fine with whatever I choose so long as it "matched his outfit."

It took me longer than I care to admit to realize that he was only jesting. Feyre assured me that he wasn't.

Frequently Azriel joins me there in the garden when the weather is kind like it is as of late. The Shadowsinger is a reserved spirit, even more so now in the absence of his closest companions, but I find his presence brings me contentment anyway. I think that it is helpful to have a new friend.

Nesta always was my constant companion in life until the war changed things.

Only I ever saw that softer, kinder version of Nesta that my sister liked to hide behind her wall of ice. Yes, Nesta could be cruel and cold, but in truth, I always suspected that she used those emotions as tools to protect herself because she just felt _too_ much. After returning to Velaris following the war, Nesta withdrew so far behind that wall that even I couldn’t find my sister anymore.

I did try to pull her out, to coax back the gentle sister I’d come to know after so many years surviving side by side, but after a time, even I surrendered, retreated to protect my own feelings. Nesta became vicious to everyone, even me. Particularly to Cassian. So, I gave up. I'm not proud to admit it, but admit it, I will.

I have found the loss of her at my side, always reading and pretending to be irritated with my idle chat, to be a physical ache; I miss her so.

She hasn’t reached out since she left for Illyria. Since she was sent away by Feyre. I don’t know if that is a good thing or not; Nesta isn’t the type of female to keep in contact from afar. I just hoped that she’d write me a letter back or send thanks for the birthday gifts that I’ve sent. I only know she’s alive because Cassian has the honor of keeping us informed. He seems less inclined to shoulder the burden every day.

✺✺✺

"What can I get for you, Elain?" The baker asks with a smile as I enter his shop.

I have lunch in the city most days; I like to explore Velaris. After all those months of wasting away, lost in the void of my powers, I relish the opportunity to get out and enjoy myself. I found this bakery on one of my adventures. It's close to the estate and serves all manner of pastries and desserts.

"Um," I say, thinking about the variety of options. "Surprise me?"

The baker laughs before disappearing to pick out my meal. I come here often, both to eat and to drill the owner with questions about how he does it. We've started a game, of sorts, where he gives me a slice of something and some basic directions and then sends me home to try and make it. I bring him back my failures, and the baker tells me how to improve. He doesn't seem worried that I will steal his recipes and open my own bakery, but I guess his food always does taste better than mine.

"You're my favorite," I tell the male as he slides a plate onto my table with a knowing grin. The smell of the tart has my mouth-watering, and I fear I'll embarrass myself with how quickly I'm about to devour the food in front of me.

One day, I will get him to part with his recipe for his tomato and goat cheese tart. Maybe I'll offer my gardening skills in exchange. I’ve found a cook will surrender even the greatest of secrets for a well-grown ingredient or two.

"Of course, I am," he tells me with a wink, and then he's off to help his next customer. I dig into the food with no regrets.

After lunch, I will fall back into my routine; I usually spend the remainder of the day by wrapping up whatever menial tasks I've found for myself. I've often tried to help Feyre with her work, but my sister insists that I don't bother myself with it. I can't decide if its just dismissal or if she's trying to protect me from the troubles of court.

Left aimless, I began looking for other jobs to occupy my time; it helps that Rhys bought Feyre the home here on the river. Their property was in desperate need of salvation, and I was more than willing to accept the challenge. Gardening is my best skill; I've never found anything else that I enjoyed or was good at. At least not on the same level.

Yet, I long for more. To be included in the machinations of running the Night Court, to be considered as necessary as the Inner Circle, as they call themselves. Azriel is the Spymaster, Morrigan, an Ambassador, Cassian leads the armies, and Rhys leads them all, with Feyre at his side.

I don't want to be useless, only suitable for housekeeping and shaping hedges, a decoration left in the background, and yet, that is precisely how I feel.

✺ ✺ ✺

However, the following day is not one of those routine days; one where I get to cloister myself away and embroider a pillow or repot my ferns.

No, today, the Night Court is throwing a party.

Today the estate is alive and bustling with activity. It jostles my nerves and makes me antsy. Too much noise, too many people, too much stuff. I remember a time when a young, hopeful human girl would have delighted at the opportunity for a party as grand as this. Now I find the upcoming event only makes me miss Nesta and her cranky, insolent attitude.

Nuala and Cerridwen spend hours fussing over my dress, my hair, my face! Typically, I’m the kind of female that enjoys an opportunity to dress up, but this takes things to a whole different level. I can’t help but think that I should be out in the gardens at this time, checking for weeds. When I say as much, Nuala smacks my arm and reminds me that she's just spent an hour shaping my nails.

“Don't ruin all my hard work.”

Honestly, I don't see the point. These... High Lords aren't coming to see me. The sad little Seer. They are coming to see Rhysand... Feyre, to bargain and insult and pick fights without actually fighting. Well, hopefully, without any actual fighting. I can only assume precautions have been put into place, such as calling Cassian back from the Steppes. But I'm not privy to such information.

Maybe I could feign a headache, get out of it early.

What a wicked thought. But it's just that everyone is... so false. I understand the gist of things: alliances between the courts are tenuous. It's been five years since the war, and everyone is waiting to see what the others will do next. Feyre took the Fae Lands and turned them on their head over tail. Hybern hasn't made a peep since they retreated. Since their King died.

A king that I killed. Kingslayer.

Five years and they’re still so quiet.

"Why so glum, little flower?" Cerridwen taps at my temple while working on my hair. She has decided to weave a braid on either side of my head; it leaves most of my brown locks loose while keeping it out of my face. It's pretty with the flowers she's added that I imagine will match the embroidery on my dress. Playing up my "flower" image, I suppose. My closet is full of custom gowns, each embroidered with its own floral design. They’re all so lovely, so very grand and extraordinary; so, I can’t bring myself to complain.

"She's doesn't want to go to the party, Cer. Elain would much rather waste all our hard efforts out playing in the dirt." Nuala pouts at me from the other side of the bedroom as she goes through my jewelry. They are only teasing me, I know, but I scowl at them just the same. They snicker, unafraid of me. I would be hard-pressed to intimidate them, well-trained spies, and who knew what else, not with my big brown eyes and button nose.

✺ ✺ ✺

The party has Rhysand all over it. My sister has never been one for spectacle, even in the face of her adversaries. Frivolous, she would call it. Feyre would much prefer to wipe the floor with someone to show her supremacy than show off her style, her wealth. Always a wild thing, my sister. That spirit kept us alive, though.

Speak of the devil, I spy Feyre on the other side of the grand room, laughing with a dark-skinned male. He has brilliant white hair and is grinning in that way that tells me my sister has said something naughty. Tarquin. I remember what my sister once confided in me, during that cold, fall evening when we curled up together by the fire and missed Nesta together. Tarquin had once fancied her. Before she betrayed him to save Prythian.

He is rather handsome.

Scanning the gathering before me, I catch Rhys openly watching his mate. I would imagine even now, the male is listening in on Feyre's conversation, enraptured by her every breath. I can't imagine what it must be like, to be so... in _love_ with someone else.

Apparently though, that love doesn't prevent silly male jealousy, I think as I watch Rhys grumble like a disgruntled puppy. I've never seen my sister look at anyone the way she does Rhys, be the way she is with anyone like she does Rhys. It's... magical. He has nothing to fear.

“Hello, Elain,” a voice greets me calmly. When I turn around, I find Lucien there, trying his best not to fidget. He’s dressed smartly in a navy doublet; the color looks good on him, sets his red hair aflame.

“It’s…good to see you,” He, as usual, seems at a loss of what to say to me. I feel much the same.

I was not informed that Lucien would be here, but I hadn't been privy to the guest list at all. I feel tricked as I meet his hesitant gaze with a forced smile.

Was this why the twins spent so much time readying me? An inexplicable wave of anger hits me at his presence, especially as I notice how the blue embroidery of my gown matches his clothing.

Scheming wraiths.

Fattening up the pig to serve as the feast roast. Metaphorically, anyway. My hand comes to rest at my stomach. Maybe a little literally. I’ve been indulging in too many sweets.

“Lucien,” my voice comes out colder than I’ve ever been capable of intentionally. I cannot explain my attitude when it comes to him, even after these years. It’s as if all my frustrations redirect into a single purpose: scorning him, our bond, and all the expectations that go with it.

I just don’t like to see him. That’s all. And yet, he is forever reappearing.

Perhaps, it is unfair of me; it’s been over five years now, since that wretched day I was Made. Yet, as I look at the male standing here before me, giving me nervous smiles and compliments, I just see the predestined future that I did not give my consent to. In him, I see another decision that I did not make for myself. Cauldron-blessed, the fae call the mating bond. It’s supposed to be something to cherish, to protect.

I am not so quick to agree with them.

Those fae have never been unceremoniously crammed into their blessed Cauldron, like dinner, in nothing more than their nightgown in front of a dozen, inhuman strangers.

They’ve never been held underwater until their bodies surrendered and their lungs gulped involuntarily for air but inhaled water instead.

Those fae weren't dumped from a glorified stewpot made anew, and then, of all things, set before a male, their captor, and declared... his.

"Is... everything alright?" I realize that Lucien has spoken, said something to try and carry the conversation. He doesn’t realize that it was already dead in the water. I haven’t heard anything he’s said; I've been so lost in my train of thought. No doubt, he can sense my unrest through our connection. The bond. At least he can't hear my thoughts like Rhys can Feyre.

"It will be," I speak magnanimously. My tone exposes that perhaps the words aren't all my own. I should stay and try to get to know Lucien, but I don't. I leave the male behind and head further into the ballroom. The party is entirely underway now. I should like to be surrounded by all these dangerous strangers instead of being alone with my mate.

✺ ✺ ✺

"Well... if it isn't the belle of the ball!" I grin as Cassian sweeps me into an embrace, kisses my cheek. I try to pretend I don't notice the stares from the guests at our big and open displays of affection, but I feel the blush rising on my cheeks nevertheless. Cassian has a knack for attracting attention, even when he maybe isn't supposed to.

My smile is shy, as I will away the heat in my cheeks. One would think being "made" into a high fae would spare you the humiliation of blushing, but here I was, red as a summer tomato.

"Why, thank you, Cassian. I am rather handsome this evening." Rhys purrs, joining us and making a show of adjusting his new jacket. Another High Lord follows my brother-in-law, laughing along with him. Cassian's smile is pleased, and it strikes me how much I miss him these days. It’s been a while since his last visit to Velaris, and they’re always such short trips.

I wish he could stay longer; I wish he'd brought Nesta with him, even as I imagine the devastation to fae diplomacy that unleashing my sister on this party would have.

"And who do we have here?" The male, Helion, pretended not to know me. The war with Hybern, along with the following discussions for peace, has made everyone familiar with each other, some more than others. Yet, everyone knows of Feyre Archeron and the story of how her sisters were Made from the Cauldron itself. They knew of the Seer and the Witch, and they’d all heard the bards sing of how we struck down the King of Hybern.

Even still, I find myself to be tongue-tied when the High Lord’s eyes settle on mine; his gaze is inquisitive and a little too appreciative for my comfort.

Cassian's arm drapes over my shoulders, protective. I am thankful for him because, if possible, I am turning even redder by the minute. I am not unfamiliar to such forward attention, but I am still me, shy Elain.

Rhys saves me from answering in that sarcastic drawl of his, "This just so happens to be my sister-in-law. Off-limits to the likes of you."

Cassian is leading me away while Helion laughs good-naturedly with our High Lord of Night. "Tell me, Rhysand. Where do you find all these lovely creatures?"

“They all just keep showing up without an invitation,” Rhys coos to the Lord of Day. “I find it quite inopportune.”

Their soft laughs get lost in the din of the party as Cassian leads me towards a secluded table. Gratefully, I take the seat that Cassian pulls out for me, and I thank him when he pushes in the chair as I sit. Cassian, on the other hand, remains standing at my side. Although an excellent reason to get our General back into Velaris for a visit, Cassian’s real purpose for coming was because the court needed some muscle for the occasion.

People aren’t very inclined to cause trouble with two great Illyrians keeping an eye on things.

Mor appears an instant later, drinks in hand. She is a goddess dressed in scraps of red silk, and I suddenly feel very dull in her presence. It is silly of me, I know, to be so intimidated by her, but Morrigan is a force of nature, whereas I tend to get swept into the current, washed away by the storm.

"That's right, Mor. Get her drunk. That'll make this mess more manageable." Cassian drawls, still scanning the ballroom, vigilant as always. This many High Lords in one place, and in Velaris of all things, makes it necessary. At least the Autumn and Spring courts hadn't deigned to join us.

I wonder if Nesta was lonely or if she was vexed at having been left behind. I shake the thought away as quickly as it comes. Knowing Nesta, she's probably curled up somewhere warm and comfortable now. Reading and enjoying her peace, I'd guess. I am a little jealous at the thought.

"It'll take more than one glass to get me drunk, unlike you, Cassian," I tell the Illyrian. Morrigan laughs loudly at the male, who looks deeply offended by my comment. I smile at him.

“You two wouldn’t be getting my sister drunk, would you?” Feyre asks, gliding into the seat on the other side of me, every bit the image of High Lady. Sometimes it still surprises me to see how far my baby sister has come from the bedraggled girl in the cabin. She's always been a survivor. How Nesta and I failed her.

“We would never,” the blonde beside me swears, and I giggle as she slides my freshly refilled glass in my direction. I take a hearty sip from it and earn a sound of pride from the Illyrian General hovering at my side.

He pats my back, and I frown at him when my drink tries to spill from the delicate crystal that contains it. “Little El’s got this covered all on her own!”

“Fey, don’t be such a worrywart,” I waive away her worries; honestly, it’s like Feyre forgets that she doesn’t have to take care of everyone all of the time. A sad drunken part of my soul reminds me that I am partially to blame for that crux; then, I burp, sudden and unexpected, and I break into a fit of giggles. It doesn’t take long for my compatriots to join in.

“You’re nothing but a bunch of troublemakers,” Feyre aims an accusing finger in our directions. I’m immediately stuck with the need to stick my tongue out at her fussing; when I notice the others doing it, I gasp in surprise. More giggles.

“Behave yourselves. Or I get to claim the pot,” the High Lady warns, turning and stalking away.

Mor cries after her, offended. “Cheater! You bet _against_ us?”

“I’ve got eyes on the lot of you,” my sister explains, skirts swishing as she glides away from us. The sparkling night sky embodied.

“How dare you use Azzie against us!” Cassian practically screams the words, and our group starts to attract the attention of some onlookers.

“Fear not, General," I begin magnanimously. "I have the Shadowsinger in my pocket." I take another sip of my drink as I assure the warrior. Before I realize the double entendre of my words, Cassian howls with joy, and Morrigan beings to wiggle her eyes brows at me in amusement. I flush a deep red, which only fuels their hilarity.

“Tell me, Ellie,” Cassian croons. “Just how did you go about getting him there?”

Mor flashes me a smile, “People have tried for centuries to get that male under their thumbs, tell us your secrets.”

Mor's retort seems inappropriate, incorrect; until quite recently, the Morrigan was, in fact, the only one with the Shadowsinger under their control. The words burn on the tip of my tongue, though, and the alcohol in my system threatens to release them, venomous and full of a protective instinct from my closest friend, Azriel.

He still hasn’t told me of the reason for their falling out, but all of the Inner Circle knows that it isn’t because of the distance that is placed between them, with Mor’s job as Ambassador. No, instead, the gap between the pair is caused by their secret, encouraged by whatever it is that has developed between them.

I wish Azriel would tell me.

“It’s not like that,” I say weakly instead, incapable of standing up for myself. I wonder if Azriel finally took the plunge, confessed the depth of his affections for the female in front of me, and she turned him down. I won’t know until one of them deigns to fill a female in.

Cassian and Morrigan continue to snicker, and I stand up abruptly. The chair I was sitting in screeches loudly from my sudden movement, and the noise startles the troublemakers from their taunting. Cassian looks regretful almost immediately.

“I need some air,” I declare, twirling away from the table and rushing from the shared space. I don’t know where I am going, only that I want out.

✺ ✺ ✺

I escape outside. The warm, humid air sticks to my pale skin and my alcohol flushed cheeks do not find the relief they so desperately seek. I find my refuge within the gardens I’ve built atop the House of Wind; Feyre found it silly of me, but Rhys was ever encouraging. We both knew he was the one responsible for the randomly appearing flowers.

Tucked away in a secluded corner, I breathe in the night air. It’s cooler out than it has been in a while, but still quite warm.

"Made a run for it, did you?" I startle at the smooth voice, then shoot Azriel an annoyed look. He’s always doing that, sneaky devil, appearing from nowhere. Someone might think that as a seer, I'd be harder to scare, but the only thing having the Sight seems to do is make me confused.

"Sorry." He smiles, and I roll my eyes at him, fond. Azriel is not sorry. Wicked thing loves sneaking up on people; he is a master of pranks.

Once, Azriel served Cassian salted cookies. They had been made with salt instead of sugar - for what reason, I couldn't tell you. These brothers seem to exult in giving one another a hard time, and I typically find it pretty enjoyable, watching their playful ways of showing affection. It is so different from my sisters and me.

The only problem is that sometimes the rest of the group is caught in the crossfire. Such as when I found the cookies, laid out picturesque on the counter in the townhouse kitchen, and had eaten one. I didn't speak to either of them for days.

"Anything interesting?" I ask him, waving back toward the palace beneath us. I know Azriel won't tell me anything of actual substance; that is the information that the Shadowsinger keeps closest to his heart. The little details that could make or break leaders, cities. The male could probably take down Prythian one day.

I am awestruck at Azriel's intrepidity often, and I believe the others find themselves similarly struck at times.

Azriel looks to be in deep consideration then says, his voice grave, "Thesan's partner is wearing a jacket almost identical in design to the one Rhys is wearing. An absolute fiasco."

The declaration catches me so off-guard that I bark out a laugh, surprised, and delighted. I cover my mouth, trying to hold in the noise; I don't want to give away our hiding place. When I look at Azriel, his expression can only be described as smug. I elbow him, hiss. "You are terrible!"

His mouth quirks upward, holding back a smile. I laugh softly again. This is nice, I think, spending time with Azriel. Hiding in the gardens where no one can see me in my finely made gown that was meant to be seen.

Nothing more has ever come of this quiet camaraderie between us; although, we’ve both received our fair share of teasing and questioning.

The rest of the family just can’t wrap their heads around the fact that we’re friends. Nothing more. Nothing less. Azriel's heart isn't available for the taking, and mine is... confused.

A burst of rich laughter breaks out into the night air; it snaps me from my reflection. Helion, I think. I watch as Azriel stills, his shadows deepening and curling around him. My mind comes to a realization almost immediately, and I grin at him.

"It seems I'm not the only one hiding." I beam at him, fascinated by the revelation. Azriel has mentioned the High Lord's particular affection for him in the past. His face gives away nothing, which, as I've learned, gives away everything. I elbow him, giggling. Azriel sighs, turning chagrined. He doesn't say anything for a while, and I wonder if he will at all.

"The High Lord of Day is... persistent," is all Azriel says. He's a male of few words. I laugh again, earning a sharp look from my friend.

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the buzz of the gathering. I think that is why I enjoy Azriel's company, so; there aren’t many people who are just content to just—be quiet. I pay no heed to his shadows, swirling as they come and go, and he pretends not to notice if I zone out, go to that little place in my mind that is not wholly myself.

I think, possibly, that that is where I have gone when the next words come out of my mouth:

"There’s a dragon in Velaris."

The Shadowsinger gives me a perplexed look at first until realization overcomes it. He’s realized that it isn’t a weird story I’m about to retell but a premonition. Those shadows of his whirl around us, looking for the answers to my riddle; I’m aware enough now to notice how they snap still when they find what they’re looking for.

Azriel’s face, tan from a summer outdoors in the sun and heat, goes white. He turns those golden eyes on me, “Go back to the party, Elain. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

And then he’s gone.


	2. FEYRE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're doing the slightest time jump backward for this one!
> 
> In what I've written so far there are a few scenes that repeat from different POVs throughout the story. Let me know what you think of this overlap... Because if you guys hate it then I'll scratch the future ones. Thanks! :)

# FEYRE’S UNINVITED GUEST

#### VELARIS | THE MORNING OF THE PARTY

It’s been five years now since Prythian and its allies claimed the victory against Hybern. United as one, fae and humans alike drove the Black King and his armies out of our country, our land, our home, and changed the world forever as we’d know it. I can still remember the day as if it were yesterday, but perhaps, that’s my fae memory coming into effect, rather than some implication that the day we won was one of the good days, a day I would want to remember.

We changed so much that day; we lost so much that day. I almost lost so much more.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, Darling?” Rhys pries from where he lounges on our bed. I’d been determined an hour ago to settle down at this desk and get some work done, but I’d quickly lost control of my mind, let it run its thoughts wherever it would like. So far, I’ve managed to open the ledger for our bills, nothing more; it would have to be a problem for another day, I guess.

I can’t bring myself to say the words on my mind, can’t bear to break the happy little bubble my mate has squirreled himself away in. He’s had a perfect day, reunited with his brothers and his cousin, got to go shopping for a brand new jacket for our party. I don’t want to ruin his mood with my melancholy thoughts.

Rhys senses this, of course, quirking a brow in my direction and sitting upwards on the bed with alertness.

“Thought for a thought, my love,” he tells me when I stay quiet too long for his liking.

I sigh in reply and make a face in his general direction that tells him just how I feel about invoking that trick at the moment. I am loathed to ruin his good mood. I should let only one of us be sour today of all days.

Those violet eyes watch me with their familiar, unsettling intensity. I sigh, and at long last, I open the floodgates of my mind, allow my mate to battle the stormy waters, and tread through the shallows that are my positive thoughts. We won. We saved Prythian. My sisters made it out, as did Cassian and Azriel, Amren and Morrigan, the unexpected additions of Varian and Lucien, the other High Lords—we all somehow managed to live.

Except we almost didn’t. Not all of us, not my mate.

“Hey now,” Rhys tells me gently, materializing at my side in an instant and wrapping me into his arms. I don’t know when he took the seat from under me or when I ended up in his lap. “None of that.”

He whispers the words into my hair; they lack only in judgment and annoyance. I lean into his embrace deeply, nuzzling my face into the crook of his neck, I breathe in that favorite scent of mine: citrus and the sea.

Rhys. My lover. My best friend. My confidant.

“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” I tell him softly as he presses his lips into my forehead, giving my body a comforting squeeze. “One second, I was going to tackle the reality of how much we spend on your hair, and the next, I was in a downward spiral. I can’t imagine how the two are related.”

Rhys’s chuckle is all fondness. Another kiss, this one to the top of my forehead.

“It comes when you least expect it, darling,” Rhys explains. I close my eyes and rest into his embrace, enjoying the feeling of his voice rumbling in his chest. “Just the other day, I was out trying to pick a new bribe for Amren, and the sight of the rubies took me back to the Summer Court.”

The blood rubies. Now rescinded but still a wound.

“One second I was at the Palace of Jewels, and the next, I was back at Adriata, trying to nonlethally take out Tarquin’s soldiers and praying that you and that horrible drake made it back to me safely. And that wasn’t even the war—it was barely even the beginning.”

I lean back to look my mate in the eyes. He gives me a weary smile. Rhys knew I was his mate, even then. I have my opinions on that, ones I remind him of every now and again, but at the same time, I have to give the male credit. How hard it must have been for Rhys to send me out into danger like that, his mate—even if I was the only one with the ability to do it.

“You didn’t tell me,” my voice is a little hurt when I speak, but I know that Rhys will understand that I am not truly mad at him for the omission. It’s hard to talk about the war, even five years later. Perhaps, it always will be.

“I am now,” my mate’s eyes twinkle at his expert evasion. I pinch his side, and Rhys scowls at me. “Wicked thing.”

His familiar words have me smiling at last; it seems to please the male. Rhys adjusts his grip on me, snuggling back into the embrace, and after a few moment’s peace, he breaks the silence once more, “If it bothers you so, we can cancel the whole thing. To hell with political hospitality.”

I laugh softly. “No, I want to see them all,” I say, thinking of Tarquin’s friendly smile and Helion’s dangerous smirk. Others will be coming as well, to see the mysterious Velaris, the city unveiled after several millennia of hiding.

“You do, too,” I add, thinking of our friends. Helion wrote to confirm his acceptance first; the note reappeared so quickly to our desk that we thought the Lord of Day might have just decided to return it unread. Imagine our surprise when he was just that excited to come.

“’Else you never would have suggested this whole ordeal,” I continue, teasingly. “But then again, I suppose you do love to throw a party.”

Rhys’s laugh is fuller this time; he nips playfully at my jaw, making me shiver with the attention. “Oh, that I do, Feyre darling. That, I do.”

☾☾☽☽

The party is everything one would expect of Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court. As those responsible for uniting the Courts, it seemed appropriate for Rhys and me to host the event. My mate was, as expected, thrilled for the excuse to throw a party, and Nuala and Cerridwen seemed only partially exasperated at the challenge.

I think that the twin wraiths were most excited at the chance to do some real spying. I don’t believe they've been in the field since the war; before that, Under the Mountain had been their task, their prison. I knew that Azriel had employed only his best spies; a party like this would make the Spymaster both delirious with opportunity and utterly exasperated.

“I never got to tell you my thought earlier,” Rhys whispers in my ear. He lets his lips brush against the delicate skin there, tantalizingly so on purpose. The prick has the nerve to grin at my reaction.

“Oh?” I ask him, linking arms with my mate. We’re about to make our entrance; the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court have arrived, a bit late, to their own party. I’d claim it was my fault, via the twin’s primping, but Rhys used every ounce of extra time to get his hair just right.

“No,” the male tells me as if it’s a scandal, “and it was such a good thought, too.”

My laugh comes unexpectedly, and I can feel rather than see Cassian and Mor as they share an eye roll with one another, freshly reunited and back into their troublesome ways. “Well? Do share, _darling_.”

Rhys’s eyes light up when I call him by my nickname.

“We’re very late,” Azriel expresses his impatience with the absolute disinterest. He can't sneak away into the shadows until the Night Court makes its grand entrance. Elain giggles beside him, her arm linked with his. Mor’s making her entrance with Cassian at her side. No Nesta, again.

The High Lord leans back into my space, those lips back at the shell of my ear. The collar of his jacket is made of the glistening night sky, but I’m too distracted by where his breath hits to properly admire the finely made garment.

“I cannot wait to take that dress off of you this evening,” my mate tells me, earning a chorus of groans from behind us. My grin is salacious.

“We’re in public!” Cassian cries, affronted.

“This is my house,” Rhys retorts, “and my court. I’ll make dirty promises to my mate wherever I please.”

“Little Lord,” Amren drawls from her spot at Rhys’s left. “If you could just make your princess-worthy entrance, I’d like to get some supper.”

I laugh at the perturbed expression on the drake’s face. Amren has made progress with her consumption of fae food; although she still prefers her proteins cooked rare, Amren eats better than she has in a millennium. Not that she thinks so.

My mate’s feathers look ruffled as he watches Amren scowl ahead of them. “Alright, let’s make haste; I’d hate for Amren to eat our guests.”

The female in question clacks her teeth together, audibly. I may be a High Lady, but the sound still makes me shudder. “There’s only one guest I’ve got my eye on for a meal, but that will have to wait.”

“Ew,” Mor wrinkles her perfect nose. Cassian looks green beside her. Even Rhys gives a little shake at the implication of Amren’s words.

Then comes the High Lord, free of the cruel, evil mask now, after years of hiding behind it, but still, a cover nonetheless. Peace or not, the fae in the next room could flatten the world if it suited their fancy to get into a squabble, and our people here in Velaris would be the first of that conflict's victims.

 _Why again, did we invite the most powerful fae in Prythian, High Lord or not, into our home all at the same time?_ I ask my mate, reconsidering this whole shindig a few moments too late.

We start moving forward, making our way down the staircase that leads to the ballroom. A princess-worthy entrance indeed.

 _For the frivolity, of course,_ Rhys’s eyes have that familiar sparkle in them. Well, at least one of us exudes confidence. _And I know how much the thrill of danger turns you on._

I fail to resist the shiver that runs through me.

Azriel is the one to sigh this time, audibly. “It’s going to be a long night stuck with these two.”

“At least you get to leave,” Morrigan accuses.

Rhys and I share a smile as our family grumbles their agreement behind us.

Onward, to the party.

☾☾☽☽

The House of Wind isn’t very small; it’s a palace, after all. However, put five High Lords and their egos and their entourages into one space, and things start to feel a little bit... crowded. Rhys and I make our rounds after our dashing entrance into our own home, but then we split ways, especially after Rhys and Helion get into it about some such story or another. 

I wander off on my own to spend some time with Tarquin, chat a bit with Viviane, wife, and mate of Kallias of Winter. Still, it’s clear to me that while they did decide to attend our party—likely due to Viviane’s enduring friendship with Mor—the pair aren’t very keen on getting to know me. So, I leave them to their own devices.

What I really want to do is spend the evening with Mor and the others. I can spot them from where I am, pouring myself a glass of wine; Elain and Mor have claimed their own little spot off in the corner. Flushed and smiling, it looks as if my sister has been indulging in the wine a bit. Good for her.

“Ah, there you are,” Helion purrs at me. He’s dressed in his sheer robes, appropriate both for the warm weather Velaris is having this summer and as a representation of his court. The male gives me an appreciative look as if he can’t help it; I honestly don’t believe he can.

Rhys grumbles from the other side of the ballroom, so low that no one else but I can hear via our bond. It doesn’t stop the Lord of Day from feeling the heat of my mate’s glare, though. Helion winks at him, but the male is smart enough to take a step back from me, giving me my space.

I’m beginning to believe that our mating frenzy will never die down. It’s certainly been long enough that it ought to have calmed, at least a little. Yet, every time I catch sight of Rhys’s lingering gaze on my curves, I’ve half a mind to drag him away from this party and have my way with him in the nearest coat closet.

 _Just say the word, darling._ Rhys purrs inside my head. It takes a physical effort to not react to him while Helion is trying to converse with me.

Rhys’s chuckles echo in the cavern of my mind as I try to give Helion my undivided attention. The other High Lord appears not to have noticed.

“I was wondering if you could meet next week to look into Vassa’s curse,” Helion tells me. Vassa is still suffering at the hands of the sorcerer from the continent. I haven't been able to cure the queen, even with Helion's knowledge and his many resources; I wish to know more about this sorcerer, but I know to be careful what I wish for.

“Certainly,” I say, my heart racing. We haven’t met for a while now, mostly because we didn’t have any new avenues to explore. If Helion’s wanting another meeting then—

“Yes, I think I have something,” Helion reads my expression flawlessly. We’ve spent countless hours together, tinkering over different spell books and staring into Queen Vassa’s aura like a couple of crazy people. “Let’s give that woman her life back, shall we?”

My grin is broad, and I feel my happiness as it spreads down my spine, leaks through the bond to Rhys. His interest is immediately piqued. Without having to search for him, I find him beside Tarquin, pretending not to be watching me from the corner of his eye.

 _That’s great news, Feyre,_ Rhys tells me through the bond after I share the news with him. After the way this morning felt to me, Helion’s report is probably the best thing to happen yet.

☾☾☽☽

“You two wouldn’t be getting my sister drunk, would you?” I ask Mor and Cassian as I approach their table. The servants have been doing their jobs immaculately; so, there is very little evidence of the amount of wine being consumed by this table alone, but I’ve noticed.

“We would _never_ ,” Morrigan vows as she pushes another glass towards Elain, pretends to be sly about it. My sister takes the glass happily, slurps from it in a surprisingly un-Elain manner.

Cassian laughs, pats at Elain’s back. “Little El’s got this covered all on her own!”

“Fey, don’t be such a worrywart,” Elain tells me. A burp escapes her, delicate and faint, and my sister breaks into a fit of giggles. Cassian and Mor burst into their own laughter, delighted.

“You’re nothing but a bunch of troublemakers,” I accuse them. To my surprise and delight, the trio simultaneously all stick their tongues out at me. I point one finger at them in warning, “Behave yourselves. Or I get to claim the pot.”

Mor gasps. “Cheater! You bet against us?”

I send her an unimpressed look.

“I’ve got eyes on the lot of you,” I call over my shoulder as I walk away, smiling. Morrigan makes an affronted sound.

“How dare you use Azzie against us!” Cassian cries after me.

Elain giggles into her wine cup, “Fear not, General. I have the Shadowsinger in my pocket.”

As I turn the corner, I hear them all break into a cacophony of laughter. I decide to let them enjoy the evening; we don’t have a lot of time with all of us in the same place very often these days. And considering we aren’t at war with anyone in the near vicinity, Rhys and I have decided that it’s not the worst idea to let the other Lords see us for something other than monsters.

☾☾☽☽

I stumble upon Varian and Amren in the hallway, curled around one another in a darkened alcove. Amren has the male pinned against the wall, surrendering to her every wish. It’s a funny picture, considering their size differences, but I find that it fits the couple.

I flush despite my amusement and wiggle my brows at Amren’s kiss-swollen face. Varian’s grin is all male arrogance.

“I see you’ve found your supper,” I jest to Amren. The drake bursts into laughter, high and sharp. Her pride makes me remember my embarrassment. “Right, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

I leave the couple to their extracurricular activities and make my way towards the kitchen. I’m dying for some water—and some quiet. I’m unused to so many people, some of them practically strangers, being in my home.

I’m apologetic when my sweeping into the kitchen earns more than a few squeaks of surprise, and there are several squawks of protest when I begin serving myself. Nuala sends me a fond smile as I wave off the staff, fully capable of taking care of myself. They watch, unsettled, as I claim a glass of water, and then I take my leave, thanking them profusely for all their hard work.

Even after all this time, most people don’t know what to do with the human born High Lady. The one that came from nothing, the one that doesn’t know how to let another person serve her without a necessary reason to.

☾☾☽☽

I settle into a balcony a few levels above the party for some quiet, staring into the night sky and resetting my mind. I grew up in a forest; I wasn’t bred for this kind of thing, much as I liked a party with my family.

 _Everything alright, darling?_ Rhys checks in on me. I send him reassurance down the bond.

 _Just recharging,_ I tell him. _I’ll be back shortly._

 _I could come and join you,_ my mate offers. _Meet me in that coat closest down the hall—_

 _Scoundrel_ , I interrupt. _Host your guests, High Lord_.

I feel Rhys’s pout, send him the sensation of my eye roll. I hear Cassian call his brother, both through our connection and via the open windows of the House of Wind. Rhys’s fond annoyance filters to me, and then the bond goes silent.

“You, m’lady,” a voice drawls from the shadows, “are not an easy person to get alone.”

My heart stops at the strange voice behind me, but I make a show of not reacting externally. Thank the Cauldron for the music playing from below; it’s loud enough to hide my heartbeat. I turn around and face the uninvited guest, making a show of being unconcerned, of taking my time.

“I don’t think you were on the guest list,” I tell her, looking the female up and down.

I can barely make out her features in the shadows, but the flash of sharp, white teeth is unmistakable in the moonlight. Dark hair blends with the dim lighting, and brown skin disappears beneath equally dark leathers—armor. Not just a regular party crasher then.

“I find that guest lists are really suggestions more than anything,” the female shrugs, glancing to the ground as if she might see the gathering through the stone floor beneath our feet. “After all, no one ever RSVP’s like they’re supposed to, and someone always shows up without an invitation.”

“I suppose the latter is you this evening?” I ask, one eyebrow raised. Her smile spreads from one corner of her mouth to the other; it reminds me of Cassian.

“You could say that,” the female tells me. The hilt of a dagger catches the moonlight at her hip, and unless my immortal eyes are failing me, I think a larger handle rests just behind her right shoulder. “Yet, if I were to have things my way, nobody would ever know that I was here without permission—except for you, of course. Unfortunately, you're _very_ popular.”

“Of course,” I agree, leaning back against the railing of the balcony. Better to play indifferent, I think than afraid. I’m a High Lady; this will need to be one hell of an assassin to kill me in my own home. “And I suppose I’m not going to live to tell anyone about your visit?”

The other fae laughs and rests her hands on her hips. It leaves her hands all the closer to her weapons. Not the best sign. “Si said you were a clever thing. It’s probably what got you into all of this trouble in the first place—males don’t _like_ clever females.”

“And Si is...?” I prod, hoping for some information. The assassin sends me a knowing look, telling me she saw right through the attempt.

“An associate,” she tells me, tilting her head and taking me in. “But you’ve already guessed as much, am I right?”

My silence is answer enough; it gives her the push to continue.

“Someone wants you very dead, Feyre _Cursebreaker_ ,” the way she uses my moniker isn’t a very good sign. It’s mocking, like a teasing nickname that isn’t at all the friendly sort. “What I’d like to know is: _why_?”

“How long do you have?” I quip. Another unexpected laugh from the assassin. I hate to admit it, but I share her amusement.

“Not long enough, I’m afraid,” she says through a smile.

“Well,” I begin with a swallow, drawing my power to my fingertips. I'm not the type to go down without a fight. “Shall we get this over with? I’ve got a party to get back to.”

She grins, “I’m always down for a tussle.” The way she says the word reeks of suggestion; it sounds like something that would come out of Helion's mouth. “But, I’m not here to kill you, High Lady—I’m here to warn you. After all, a smart assassin never shows their face.”

“Unless the intention is that their victims will never see another,” I rebuke, and I catch another flash of her teeth.

I can already feel the shift in the air around us. A warning of what is to come. The shadows around the female have begun to roil, withdrawing from her frame to better reveal her identity. A pair of umber eyes look back at me, concern flashing within them; she's tall, full-figured.

“You have until he gets here,” I warn, urging her to speak faster. She blanches; yes, let her think that I mean my mate.

“Someone very important wants you dead, m’lady,” the female speaks a little faster; her eyes dart around carefully. “They’re paying an obscene amount of money for it.”

"Who?" I demand. She shrugs, flipping her glossy, dark hair over one shoulder. The top half of it is bound back into an elaborate plait; it seems like a waste of time for a killer. I want to ask how she managed it.

"I'd like to know that myself." The female muses, gesturing with her hands and causing the steel of the dagger now in her hands to catch the light again; I wish she’d be more careful. "But I just go where the coin leads me. Most of the time, that points me in the direction of rapists, murderers, and the sort – not _saviors of the realm_."

Her face grows serious. "Someone very high up is sponsoring your bounty."

She can’t do it; I realize with a start. She cannot kill me. Or will not.

Sensing the direction of my thoughts, she continues with a nonchalant attitude, as if to play off the admission. "Besides, I'm thinking the pay on this job doesn't begin to cover the cost of the enterprise." The smile she gives me is positively wicked. It makes me think of Cassian after he's just told a particularly bawdy joke and is about to get a beating. "It certainly won't save my ass when your mate comes looking for me. Gods, I think not—"

Azriel appears then, bursting from the shadows like some snarling demon. In one moment, the balcony is calm in the evening air, undisturbed except for by our conversation and the faint din of music in the background. In the next, my Shadowsinger appears, standing between myself and the strange female, protecting me from what in a different scenario might have been my killer.

The female goes deathly still, and I watch her assess the situation as it develops. She is going to run for it soon; I can feel it in my bones.

Rhys tugs at the other end of the bond with urgency, and I answer with a pull of my own. His worries transform into something else, something hot and burning: fury.

The skies rumble with my mate’s rage, and for the first time, I see true panic flicker in my guest’s eyes. Her arrogance vanishes. There’s no mistaking the power of a High Lord, and this one is very, very upset with her. From below, the other High Lord’s respond in kind. The other guests and staff gasp with surprise. The music halts. 

Magic pollutes the air. Five courts in once place. Cauldron, what bad timing.

 _Stay calm,_ I tell my mate. _I have this under control._

Rhys tempers his magic as best he can, but I can feel the delicate hold he has on it, just as I can feel his anxiety at my being in danger. The bond thrums with it, with his need to _protect._

 _We don’t need an international crisis, Rhys._ I plead. His magic fades a little more. _Azriel is here with me_.

Meanwhile, the female eyes the Shadowsinger cautiously, his blue siphons flaring and shadows churning; she glances back to me, eyes calculating and determined, likely picking out her next move. The assassin shifts her posture into something casual, familiar even, then speaks to Azriel.

"Hello there." Azriel roars, advances with his wings outstretched. It’s a threat. He is not as amused by her playfulness as I have been. The female takes a single step back, less confident in the face of this powerful Illyrian’s aggression, and meets my eye. "Perhaps I should be going."

“Perhaps, party crasher,” I agree. Azriel snarls to tell us just how he feels about that idea. I lay one hand on his shoulder; the Illyrian’s muscles tense under the contact, pulsating with the need to lunge forward and attack the threat.

"Well, be quick about it," I say, hurrying her along.

"Right." She breaks from her stare off with Azriel, cautious not to move too quickly. The Shadowsinger stays in front of me, a shield to protect me in any storm. Calm, kind Azriel has become an angel of death, with wreathing clouds of shadows and blue flashes of lightning. The killer pauses.

"Be mindful, my lady. As the bounty remains... unfulfilled," she eyes Azriel again, careful of her choice in words. "Others will come to claim the prize. Your city isn't as safe as it once was, now that the borders have opened."

Another thunderclap signals that time is up. I give the intruder a look, and she makes a face.

“Right,” she makes a face. "Toodles."

The form of the assassin blurs, nothing more than a breeze rustling the curtains at the entrance to the terrace. Azriel tenses with the instinct to chase the female down, hunt, and kill her for her offenses, but I squeeze his shoulder with the hand still resting on his shoulder, urging him to stand down.

“Let her go,” I command. I can practically feel Azriel’s rage at the idea, but he obeys the command of his High Lady. I wait until he’s posture relaxes, ever so slightly, before releasing my grip on him.

I would assume that the assassin is long gone by now, but that won’t stop Azriel from looking for her, hunting for her. I’m not foolish enough to even pretend to believe that.

Rhys materializes beside me between one breath and the next, snarling with his fury. “What the _fuck_ is going on here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who sent the assassin? Why did she back out?  
> I look forward to hearing your theories!
> 
> <3


	3. AZRIEL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to figure out Azriel's shadows was, like, a whole thing. *shrugs*

# AZRIEL’S FAILURES

#### VELARIS | THE PARTY

I’ve always hated Rhys’s parties. My brother can be a frivolous male at times, and the opportunity to show off in front of his counterparts, that was irresistible for him. When the Inner Circle met to discuss the fifth anniversary of the war… this was not what I had in mind.

Morrigan was elated at the idea of bringing the courts to Velaris; she’d made fast friends of the other groups during her tenure as ambassador. Opening the borders and welcoming new people into Velaris had done the city much good, but it’d also caused its own set of problems.

Such as the female I was currently snarling at, threatening to eliminate if she even looked the wrong way in the direction of my High lady.

Feyre lays a hand on my shoulder, suggests we release the female, and allow her to go free. I don’t even have to think about whether or not that it is a good idea; I snarl. Feyre squeezes my shoulder with insistence.

I hold the female’s stare, unblinking. My shadows roil around us in a thick blanket, strong enough to dim the fae lights that decorate the balconies. The fae in front of me maintains eye contact with me; although, she isn't able to hide how she blanches at the sound of my rage.

"Well, be quick about it,” Feyre drawls, playing at indifference. That perfected, cold mask of the High Lady is in place as she watches the assassin in front of her, casually asks for further information. At last, the female breaks eye contact with me, and another low growl escapes me.

 **Assassin,** my shadows whisper. **She’s accepted a contract to kill the High Lady of the Night Court.**

"Be mindful, my lady. As the bounty remains... unfulfilled," the female warns Feyre, subtly adjusting her stance to flee the premises. My growl turns into a warning, another squeeze from Feyre. "Others will come to claim it’s prize. Your city isn't as safe as it once was, now that the borders have opened."

A crack of thunder. The High Lord must be near his breaking point; I find it hard to believe that he isn’t here already, snapping the bones of this female and turning what remains of her to dust with nothing more than his mind.

"Toodles." The female lunges, quick as lightning. She fades from vision as quickly as any winnow, but the way that the window draping’s move, tell me that it’s something different.

 **Fast,** my shadows explain. **The assassin moves quickly.**

 **She’ll be back,** another voice warns me, voice echoing as it fades.

Then, in unison: **We cannot let her go. The female has the answers.**

I lunge in the direction the assassin left, allowing those peculiar powers of mine to direct me. She took the back hallway into a spare bedroom; then to go will be the windows. A climb down the side of the mountain. I don’t need to chase her; I can pluck her off the side of the palace. My wings rustle, and I prepare to take flight.

Feyre grips my shoulder with a bit more force. “Let her go.”

My friend, my sister, uses a voice laced with darkness and willpower. It’s a tone that I cannot disobey, as much as I want to. She’s definitely come into her own these last years. Feyre slipped into the role of High Lady quickly; as Rhys’s mate, she was Cauldron-made for it. She’d only gotten better at the job with time.

Magic crackles in the air and Rhys arrives, Night Incarnate. The taste of his power is sharp in my senses. His eyes are wild with anger—and fear. It's the expression of a male whose mate's life is on the line.

“What the _fuck_ is going on here?” His voice booms with a snap of thunder. I stand up straight, tuck my wings in tight to keep them safe. I know that Rhys isn’t mad at me, isn’t here to attack me, but when the most powerful High Lord in history is pissed off and in the near vicinity, instinct tells me to fight or flee.

 **Flee** , the shadows order me. **Night is angry. You’ve failed—he’ll blame you. The High lady could have been killed. It’s your—**

“Everything is under control,” Feyre tells her mate with confidence, but we all can hear the way her pulse races. Her voice remains calm, but I believe it’s more to do with the desire to keep her mate calm, to not make a scene with so many distinguished guests in the next room.

Rhys trembles with the shimmering night air, eyes wild with fury, with fear. That old warrior instinct, ingrained into me after brutal decades in the Illyrian mountains, has me tracking the probability of reaching any of the exits before the High Lord can reach me. Throwing myself over the railing and into the sky is my best chance at survival.

“Rhys,” the High Lady draws up close to her mate, takes his face in her hands. The gesture is intimate and delicate—and brave as hell. Were she anyone other than herself, his mate, and partner, Feyre would likely be dead.

“It’s fine. I’m okay,” Feyre coos as if she were trying to soothe some wild beast and not her mate. In the silence, I realize that the music in the ballroom below has gone silent; a hundred nosey immortal ears are listening to the mates’ conversation.

With an urging of my shadows, the band abruptly resumes the song it was playing before; the soft murmuring returns, but I doubt that any of our guests are in a dancing mood anymore. They’ve likely started their whispers to one another, clucking like hens.

 **The High Lords are upset** _,_ the shadows tell me. **Winter is suggesting the attack is a stunt, to gain sympathy.**

 **Day wants to know if he can help** _,_ another voice says. **He is looking for you.**

“She wasn’t here to hurt me,” the High Lady continues. The High Lord’s head snaps up at that, gaze flicking from her face and landing heavily upon mine. The fire in those eyes sets my nerves on edge; I try not to tense, to have him misread my body language, and attack me.

“How,” the male growls, voice rough with his just barely controlled rage, “did she get in?”

Feyre’s stormy eyes turn to me, as well, mirroring the question. Amren and Rhys had toiled over the wards for days in preparation for the ball, and Feyre and Helion both picked at it, ensuring it was safe. How had the assassin managed to enter the palace?

My jaw clenches with the understanding that I don’t have the answer for them; Rhys’s eyes spark with impatience, while Feyre looks sympathetic. Neither says anything to me, allowing me the peace to turn over what’s transpired and puzzle it out. I come up blank.

Rhys must recognize my loss; he snarls, “Well, go find out.”

I take my leave of the couple immediately, following my orders; I pull those twirling shadows of my inwards, drawing them to me like a blanket of cold, black silk. One moment, I am standing under the disappointed gaze of my High Lord, and the next, I’m slinking through the shadows of the House of Wind, listening to the whispers of my shadows.

 **She does not belong to one of the High Lords** is the first fact that they bring me.

I weave my way towards the kitchens. We had an influx of staff to attend to the needs of the party, including those Nuala and Cerridwen brought over from the manor’s usual tenders. They handpicked them all themselves, but apparently, someone slipped through.

 _I’m offended you would even imply such a thing,_ is what Nuala tells me, tugging on that tendril of magic I use to share information with them. I let loose a small growl at her playfulness. Now’s not the time for Nuala’s sass.

 _We will check again,_ her sister replies. Ever the pacifist, Cerridwen has some sass of her own, but she doesn’t enjoy getting under my skin in the way Nuala does.

 _Let me know what you find, immediately,_ I order; I’ve moved on to the lower levels of the palace, the areas that mostly go unused. These are the places that would most obviously be an entrance for someone with an agenda. I thought we'd secured them properly, but perhaps, I was wrong.

As expected, they’re empty, and as I investigate the wards down here, I find them intact, as well.

I send out more shadows, request more information from the spies within the House of Wind and Velaris, both. Someone needs to bring me some information and quickly; we planned for this evening for months, and just like that, someone was able to spoil it.

✦ ✦ ✦

I spend the rest of the evening scouting out the home, the city. Spies filter in and out, sharing their tidbits of information with me.

A servant saw a leather-clad guest in the servant’s halls, was one report.

Another report mentioned that a doorway to the party was left unguarded, its protector having wandered off for a quick and frenzied tryst. I ordered Nuala to bring them to me later.

Another spy, _Helion, is looking for you_.

I groan, resist the urge to scold the scout; it’s not their fault that the Lord of Day is so… tenacious. Apparently, a near-murder was not a deterrent for him. A problem for later.

✦ ✦ ✦

 **The stairs,** a shadow tells me, after what feels like hours later. **She used the stairs to get in. We missed her. You missed her.**

There’s a tap at my shields before I can get lost down that train of thought, of guilt. Feyre’s presence brushes against my own, and I am hit with the sensation of being amongst the fern-covered grounds of a forest, surrounded by glittering starlight. I let her in.

 _The guests have departed for the night,_ my High Lady tells me. _The family is gathered in the living quarters. If you’ll come to join us._

I’m not eager to return to them, to Rhys, empty-handed, but either I show up willingly, or they’ll send Mor or Elain after me to drag me out of hiding. That is if Rhys doesn’t drag me to the gathering himself. He’s doesn’t like to be ignored, my brother.

I take a deep breath, hold it in for as long as possible, and then I gather my shadows, transferring myself from the haunt that I have claimed along the border of Velaris and to the cozy living room the Circle prefers best. The space is still and quiet, but I can hear the staff working elsewhere, cleaning up after the party.

Rhys has taken an elegant pose against the unlit fireplace, staring down at the mantle as if it holds all the secrets. Feyre sits nearby him, perched atop the armrest of a chair to remain as close to her mate as possible; her face is grim, lines crinkling her forehead. She’s probably spent most of the evening reassuring the High Lord.

It was a ridiculous idea for Feyre to let the assassin go; we should be interrogating her beneath the Hewn City now, not chasing after breadcrumbs and trying to find the female.

“It certainly took you long enough, boy,” Amren barks, voice edged. She sits beside Morrigan, perched on the end of the couch. Mor’s brown eyes slide towards the drake, eyeing her with fond exasperation.

“Did you find her?” Elain asks with wide eyes. She’s holding a cup of tea, looking considerably soberer than I saw her last. I’ll have to take the time to ask her some questions, see if she remembers anything more about her premonition.

My wings rustle, “No.”

Feyre looks relieved to hear it and judging by the way that Rhys’s head jerks in her direction, he can feel the relief down the bond. The High Lady’s eyes narrow, turning to meet her mate’s aghast expression. Whatever they say to one another, it’s not for our ears, but the impatience reads clear on both of their faces.

“Well,” Cassian’s booming baritone bounces off the stone walls, “what did you find?”

I cut a scathing look in my brother’s direction. His grin is fiendish. Cassian does love to get a rise out of someone, especially me.

Rhys interrupts our stare down. “Yes, do share, Azriel; how did an assassin with a bounty on Feyre break into our home?”

“Rhys,” Feyre sounds annoyed. “I told you she wasn’t here to kill me. She wanted to warn me, and she did. That is what we should be focusing on, not hunting her down.”

“The assassin is no longer in Velaris,” I decide on. I have no desire to get in between those two; I’ll let them settle that amongst themselves. “She is… fast. Based upon the reports, she took the stairs to get in, slipped through a hole in the wards… somewhere. I’ll leave that investigation to you and Amren."

Amren scoffs, clearly put out at the prospect of having to do the work. But Amren loves a puzzle; the drake will enjoy her work.

“Staff reported catching sight of a female in armor in the servant’s halls, and Nuala uncovered that a post was left unattended for a duration during the party. Those responsible will be duly punished,” I add the last part at the expressions of my family. I have a feeling there will be some tightening off security amongst our staff.

“Who was she?” Morrigan asks, voice melodic with curiosity.

“Based upon her armor, the assassin is a member of the Phobos Guild,” I tell my friends, watching as the blood drains from their faces. The assassin guild is well known throughout Prythian; they’re not a group you would want to cross.

“Then you needn’t worry about the girl,” Amren drawls, taking a sip from a wine glass. “If she warned Feyre about the bounty, she’s as good as dead. Phobos will be rid of her with the week, days even.”

Feyre’s face contorts with concern; only our High Lady would be upset at the idea of an assassin being killed, of her assassin being killed. “They’ll do that to her? Kill her for warning me?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cassian nods vigorously. “Phobos doesn’t take prisoners; that’s for sure,” my brother grins at his own joke. “When they find out that we know about the bounty—that she betrayed them,” Cassian makes a cutting gesture across his throat, accompanied by a wicked noise. Feyre blanches.

“We can’t let them do that!” The female cries.

Rhys smiles for the first time, wraps an arm around his mate, and tugs her to him. The High Lord rests his chin atop his mate's head, expression full of affection.

“Only you would want to protect a paid killer,” he tells her soft and fond. Rhys looks to me, “Is that everything?”

“For now,” I confirm. It’s not much, but it is all I have.

“So, what do we do?” Feyre asks, looking between Rhys and I. We both know she wants to know about saving the killer.

“Nothing, we can do,” Rhys tells her. “If she’s turned on the guild, there isn’t anything that can be done.”

“She could come back to claim the bounty,” I supply, warning. “If she comes to regret her decision. An order for a High Lady’s life—the only one—and your mate, the reward would be priceless. Enough to either earn her place back within Phobos or to live comfortably far out of their reach.”

Rhys growls at the thought, a guttural snarl; he holds Feyre closer to his side and tucks a wing around her, assuring himself of her safety. His mate leans into his embrace, soaking in his comfort.

Cassian growls a little, too. His eyes burn with protectiveness when he speaks, “We’re not going to let anything happen.”

Amren gives a curt nod, and even Elain looks somber at the idea.

“We’ll tighten security,” I add aloud, thinking through the logistics of everything. “Feyre, its probably best if you don’t travel alone for the time being. Even if the assassin doesn’t come back, there will be others, like she said.”

Feyre nods.

“I wish we could help her,” she laments. Selfless to a fault, our High Lady. That human heart of hers at work.

“Right,” Mor says, rising from where she’d been lounging on the couch. “If that’s all there is, I need to go do some smoothing over with the High Lords. They’re not too thrilled that we welcomed an assassin into the party; they barely like us as it is.”

Rhys sighs and looks towards his mate, “I told you we should’ve canceled the party.”

Feyre giggles, earning a few smiles. It’s hard not to laugh when she does, even my lips twitch. “You’re just upset that someone else wore your outfit.”

The group laughs, and with that, we begin to part for the evening.

Mor brushes my shoulder tentatively as she passes me, and I try my hardest not to react outright to her touch. Things have been strained between us ever since the truth came to light. I blame her for nothing, and it’s all the worse for how Mor acts towards me now. Like she doesn't know where we stand. It's true, even I don't know the answer to that question, but it hurts to acknowledge. We've never had such discomfort in our friendship before.

I meet her eyes, shier than I’d like. Mor smiles, wary. “Would you like to come with me? I could use your opinion on creating a… battle strategy.”

Her expression is wry at the choice of words. I’m loath to turn her down, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to spend time with her. Yet, I don’t want Morrigan to ever feel as if I’ve rejected her.

“I’m sorry…” I trail off as her face falls. “I have to return to my search. I—”

“That’s fine,” Mor says a little too quickly. “There’s always next time.”

“Cauldron, I hope not,” I mutter, balking at how my words must sound to her. “No! I didn’t mean it to sound like that, Mor.”

The blonde waves me off, countenance sad. I know how she’s feeling; we’ve never had such a hard time interacting with each other before, even at our worst times. Now we reconsider each word, fear insulting the other in a way we never would have before.

“I know what you meant, Az,” she tells me, tapping me on the nose once. It's an old affectionate gesture, but we still feel weird about it. “Try to get some sleep, alright? I know how you like to obsess over your puzzles.”

Mor looks at me as if she might hug me, decides not to. She flashes me another smile before sweeping from the room, leaving me to my search.

✦ ✦ ✦

“Ah, I was wondering where you’d wandered off to, Mysterious One,” a voice purrs from behind me. Perhaps, it’s because I know the voice or it’s because I thought that they were gone, but I spin around in surprise, coming face to face with Helion.

His grin can be described as nothing other than scandalous. I try not to cringe when his eyes sweep over me; the male has always been appreciative of a leather outfit. I can’t say I blame him; it’s a very attractive look on the right person. I just wish he didn’t find it so fascinating on me.

“I thought you were gone,” I tell him, “High Lord,” I add quickly. It’s clearly an afterthought, but this is the Helion we’ve come to know away from the crowds. He flashes me a sly smile.

“Without saying goodbye to my favorite Illyrian?” Helion winks. “Never.”

“Can I help you with something, High Lord?” I change the topic. His grin is knowing, but Helion lets me get away with it. I think he likes how his advances make me squirm more than he has any real intention of follow-through; although were I to return the favor, I’m sure he’d be delighted.

“I could think of a few things,” he jests, eyes twinkling with mischievousness. Then Helion’s face grows serious; he’s sought me out for business then. “Forgive me, but I took the liberty of inspecting the wards once more. I heard we had an unexpected visitor, and I thought to be of some help.”

I made a note to have Amren mix up the incantations some. Friend or not, it was best Helion did not all of our ins and outs. Clearly, they weren’t all up to par, anyway.

“And did you find anything?” I ask. Later, I would torture myself over having to ask this High Lord of another court for help; it’d cost me hours of sleep. I hate to ask for help, to need it.

“Yes, actually,” Helion tells me, and I just managed to keep from showing my surprise. “Well, rather, I found a lack of anything. It’s as if your guest simply… opened herself a door and let themselves in. When they left, they closed it behind them. It was quite clever work, really.”

“You can see that?”

“Only faintly,” the Lord of Day tells me. “It’s like the faintest of scars, healed over and faded years later. I’m impressed, really.”

My mind has already begun to process this news. The assassin was able to open the wards, and then she simply closed them behind herself, as if she were never there. It’s a handy ability for a member of the guild; it’s also especially worrisome. Do they all have this ability, one so similar to Day, or is it a weapon? Is it unique to just the visitor from this evening?

I realize after a moment that I never responded to Helion; I forget to do that sometimes, continue a conversation that I am in the middle of having. My mind just gets ahead of itself at times.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord,” I say. Helion’s smile is downright dirty, and I come to the conclusion it’s because of how I addressed him. The man is positively wicked. “Forgive me, but I must go and report this. Have a good night.”

Helion gives me a nod as I go. I should keep an eye on the High Lord wandering around the House of Wind, but my shadows tell me that Mor is nearby, along with both Nuala and Cerridwen. Helion isn’t the only guest that’s chosen to stay the night; Tarquin and his companions have remained behind as well. I imagine the Lord of Summer is eager to see the sights of Velaris, compare the mountain views to the seaside ones from back home.

I wasn’t lying when I said I needed to report Helion’s findings, but based on the turn of the evening and the current hour, I decide to wait until the morning to speak with Rhys and Feyre. Instead, I make my way towards the office I use for work here at the palace. I could use the gap of time to take a quick nap, but as I glance out the windows and see the breaking of daylight, I know that sleep will not come quickly to me this morning.

An order comes through from Rhys, quiet and lethal, as I settle into my chair. No, sleep won’t be coming easy for me. Not for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't know, Phobos is the Greek god of fear. Seemed appropriate.


	4. RHYS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy some feysand domesticity (and smut).  
> on that note: **chapter contains mature/nsfw content.**

# RHYS SPOILS HIS MATE

#### VELARIS | THE NEXT MORNING

 _Find her at once,_ I deliver the order to my brother as I lay beside my mate and watch Feyre sleeping soundly beside me. As if an assassin hadn’t hopped out of the shadows in the middle of the party. As if we hadn’t just found out someone very, very powerful wanted her dead. Someone rich and cruel and with connections, if they were able to get in touch with Phobos.

It will be done, Azriel’s soft voice flickered back to me, all no-nonsense. The connection dies immediately after; Azriel was prone to doing that, for fear of allowing some thought or secret to slip through to me. It was a ridiculous fear. Azriel kept his and everyone else’s truths bound tightly to his person that I don’t think even Az could torture his own secrets out of himself.

I hope I live to see the day someone cracks through the marble that lines his heart, live to see the day he lets someone truly in.

“You are thinking far too loud,” Feyre mumbles from her cocoon of blankets. I snort softly before running my fingers through her unbound hair and make her hum contently. If she looked marvelous last night at the party, dressed in yards of night-black silk and diamonds, she’s positively radiant right now in nothing more than her own skin. I could spend all evening watching her sleep.

“Especially for someone who practically blacked out on me earlier." One stormy eye opens to look at me, full of mischief. "I thought you'd gone and died on me, old man."

A smile struggles at her lips. I press a kiss to the corner of her mouth to break it free.

“Maybe I’m just waiting for round two,” I purr into her ear and earn a shiver in response.

Feyre plays coy and snuggles her face deeper into her pillow, “I don’t know. Wouldn’t want to wear you out too badly; we've diplomatic engagements today.”

“Wicked thing.” My lips ghost the shell of her pointed ear as I talk, and I revel in the way that Feyre’s body trembles beneath me in anticipation of what I’ll do next.

I slide closer to her warmth, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin there behind her ear. Feyre hums happily as I trail my lips down the back of her throat, and she arches her neck to allow me better access to her skin. A wanton noise escapes her as I drag my hands down her sides and around her small waist, tugging her flush to my own body and allowing her to feel my arousal.

She moans my name. A plea for me.

“Rhys.” Her voice is breathless, low, and husky.

“Yes, Feyre darling?” I ask, trailing my fingertips down her the soft skin of her side towards the apex of her thighs. She moans.

Yet, as happy as I am like this, with my mate pressed in close, I have other plans for Feyre. I pull away from her, smiling as she makes a noise of protest at my retreat. Yet, she’s pliant in my hands as I tug her up by her waist and onto her knees; she giggles, wiggling her round hips for me. I huff a laugh at her antics, but the female presses back into my hips then, and my laughter is cut off with a deep groan.

Leaning forward, I nip at that favorite spot of mine at the junction of her neck, the one that makes my mate melt into my hands. Dragging my way down the column of her spine, I relish the noises she makes as I trace the dark ink I find there.

Feyre thinks it’s very amusing, how fond I am of the phases of the moon inked into her skin, appearing at the middle of her shoulder blades and stopping just before the dip in her lower back.

 _I have a present for your birthday_ , she’d told me. I’d been positively delighted—and aroused.

She giggles again as if having the same thought as me. This time, I bite at her hip in answer, and Feyre moans loudly at the scrap of teeth on skin. It’s a very good thing we warded the master quarters, or no one would ever get any sleep around here.

Ready to move on, I take her hips in my hands, a little more roughly than necessary, and move them up high; I’ve learned in the last few, happy years that sometimes my mate doesn’t mind a little playful coarseness in the bedroom. The hardness of my grip makes Feyre groan deeply again, and I smirk into her skin.

She must sense it, through the bond, because she mutters a _Prick_ , saying the word both aloud and through our connection. The husk in her voice makes my skin hot, and my cock twitches in excitement.

I laugh at Feyre’s indignant attitude, even as she trembles for me. Spreading her thighs apart and sliding onto my back beneath her, I earn a gasp. Feyre clutches to my hair, where she finds it beneath her, tugging at the ends and rocking her hips in time with my ministrations.

People have called me a lot of things throughout the centuries, but never have I been called selfish in bed.

I lick and suck at Feyre, listening to her uneven breathing and gasps of air. The sounds she makes are enough to drive me into a frenzy of my own. I groan into her folds, causing her to clench her walls around the fingers I’ve buried deep within her, working her from both points of contact.

“Rhys,” my mate pants my name, thighs shaking on either side of my head. “Oh! Fuck, _Rhys_.”

I groan again and slide my free hand down my own body, trying to find just a little bit of my own relief as I have my way with Feyre with my mouth.

When she whimpers for more, I slip a third finger inside to join the others and begin to intensify my movements; I feel her body start to go taught, like a bowstring ready to fire. Feyre’s hips roll against my face; the motions turning erratic and desperate, as are the noises slipping from that delicious throat of hers. I could die just like this and go happily in peace. Drowning in Feyre.

 _Mate. Mate. Mate._ The bond thrums within me, between us. Five years and the call hasn’t begun to fade. Feyre pulls hard at my hair, and her thighs start to squeeze against the sides of my face. I groan desperately.

“Rhys!” Feyre screams for me as she climaxes. I work her through her pleasure, her body jerking above me and walls contracting around my fingers. I don’t stop until she goes limp, sighing.

As I slide out from under her, my mate falls to the mattress on her back, breathless and sated. Our eyes meet, and she shoots me a blissful smile.

It’s one of my favorite looks on her.

That lazy smile of hers fades when her gaze lands on my erection, turns from arrogant to hungry. Feyre immediately becomes more aware, sitting up and reaching for me without warning. I choke in surprise as her fingers wrap around me; somehow, the female still manages to catch me off guard. I’m a goner with her hands on me, stroking and squeezing just the way I like it.

My laugh is a little crazy when Feyre changes her mind and decides to shove me backward onto the bed, climbing atop me. Her smile is full of guile as she straddles my waist, taking my cock back in her hands. I try to lean up and kiss her; I know how she likes to taste herself on my lips, but my mate shoves me back, denying me.

“Evil cr—“ my words get lost in a moan as she takes me inside of her. Again, without warning. My body arches and my mind goes blank.

Feyre makes quick work of me, taking pride in being able to make me lose all sense. The way she looks above me, rising up and down, head thrown back... I’ll let Feyre do whatever she wants to me.

I’m almost embarrassed by how quickly I fall apart. Her name is all that rolls of my tongue, harried and desperate, as I grasp at her to ground myself. She tells me how good I look, feel, and soon Feyre tips over the edge a second time, locking her lips onto mine at last for a desperate, messy kiss.

Afterward, we lay in silence. The only sound in the room our ragged breaths.

Feyre breaks into laughter, breathless and husky. I arch a brow at her in question and the wicked female smirks at me. “Looks like you still have it in you, old man.”

I growl at her, rolling over to grapple her body with my own. Feyre squeals before breaking into laughter, and with my body pinning her own, I tickle her senseless. The bell-like sound of her laughs almost dearer to me than anything else in this world.

✵ ✵ ✵

My mate and I sleep the morning away, rousing each other throughout with another teasing touch or, as is Feyre’s favorite method, a dirty thought slipped down our connection. Eventually, I take my leave of the nest we’ve made, in search of a warm bath and some food.

Feyre’s appetite is voracious, in both food and sex.

I find sustenance in the kitchens. Nuala gives me a knowing smile at my late rising, but she chooses not to tease me for it. Her sister offers me a tray of modest foods. Cheese and freshly baked bread. Warm tea and fruits. Even in its simplicity, the spread is generous.

“This is why you’re my favorite wraiths,” I tell them. They roll their eyes before ushering me out of their space. I play at being put off. “You would banish me from my own kitchen?”

“The day I see you use it,” Cerridwen teases, “is the day I finally claim that retirement package you’ve offered.”

“How I pray that day never comes,” I tell her solemnly. She rolls her eyes at me again before returning to her work. I take the dismissal for what it is.

Upstairs, I find my mate still fast asleep. Without me in the bed, Feyre’s spread out across the mattress wrapped up in our fluffy coverlet. I wonder if this is how she sleeps those mornings when I’m away on business on my own. She’s a bed hog even when I’m here, so it wouldn’t surprise me.

I set the tray on the table beside the bed and crawl across to peck Feyre on the nose, where it peeks out above the covers. Her eyes have disappeared under a messy halo of golden-brown hair, and she snores ever so lightly in her deep sleep. The whole picture makes my chest ache with warmth.

My kiss startles Feyre from her sleep; Feyre snorts softly as she wakes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at her. She’s too cute like this. I hate to have to wake her and end it, but we’ve duties to attend to. The high lord and lady have guests in their City of Dreams.

Feyre scowls at me, but I just press another kiss to her nose. Then one to her forehead. She smiles at last. Then the female sniffs the air, eyes sparkling at the scent of warm bread and tea.

“Did you bring me breakfast?” Feyre asks, voice still rough from sleep, from moaning my name all morning.

I smile and bring the tray over between us. “Breakfast in bed for my lady.”

Her smile is brighter than the afternoon sun. I’m speechless under its power.

“You’re the best mate I’ve ever had,” she teases. I can’t help the jealous noise that escapes me, even over something as silly and impossible as her having another favorite mate.

Feyre flicks my nose, chuckling. “You sure are an envious thing here lately.”

I know she doesn’t mean anything by the words, but I also know how sometimes it worries her. The intensity of the bond. Even though I’ll never be the way that bastard was with her, about her, I can see when it haunts her, even now.

Time heals all wounds, but scars fade slowly.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, tucking a wily lock of hair behind her ear. Feyre smiles and presses her face into the palm of my hand. “The bond is temperamental sometimes. I do my best. But can you blame me? An assassin came to visit you last night, darling, and you just let her go.”

The decision was not mine to make. I know. But it drives that feral, protective part of me mad to think Feyre might have been so close to death and we didn’t see it coming. What if that female had been here for blood and not a warning?

Feyre kisses me softly, “You’re such a worrywart. Everything will be fine.”

I flop onto my back, sighing dramatically and rub a hand down my face. “Everything will be fine, she says. As if she didn’t find out last night that she has a bounty on her head. Feyre, my love, my mate—you’re just taking away years of my life with this nonchalant attitude of yours. And, as you’re so keen to remind me, I’ve not many left. Could you stop seeking danger, darling? It’s bad for my heart.”

Feyre laughs at me. “I’m just trying to keep things interesting, old man. I know you like things boring in your old age but—“

“You’re so mean to me,” I lament. “My cruel mate.”

She presses a kiss to my lips, and I whimper, dramatic as always. Feyre chuckles, and then she slips from the covers, still bare of clothing. My interest is immediately piqued, pouting forgotten.

“Poor baby Illyrian,” she coos at me, flashing a devilish smile over her shoulder. I sit up with interest, watching her backside move as she walks. Feyre sways her hips just a little more than necessary as she trails her way towards the bathroom, and I rise from the bed to follow after her, food forgotten.

Just as I reach her, Feyre giggles mischievously and clicks the door shut in my face. I groan her name, but all my mate does is laugh, sending an order down the bond to keep her food warm. The demanding temptress.

✵ ✵ ✵

Helion and Tarquin are the only High Lords that have decided to stay. I’d prefer it so; although, I’d like to have the opportunity to win over Kallias or Thesan, having them leave means that we all can relax a bit. Varian’s and Amren’s relationship has undoubtedly played its part in mending the strained relations between Summer and Night, and Helion is, well, Helion.

“How lovely of you to join us, Rhysand,” Helion purrs from the chaise he’s claimed in the House of Wind. It could just be the Summer Equinox approaching that makes the sunshine so bright today, or it could be Helion himself, a shining beacon for the burning star, encouraging it to burn just a little bit brighter here in his presence.

One would expect that the Lord of Night and the Lord of Day to be sworn enemies, as complete opposites, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find the salacious High Lord to be a good and loyal friend throughout the years. His eagerness to get in the pants of every member of my family could also play a role in his kindness, too. I suppose.

Elain giggles from her perch beside with Mor. The glittering expression in my sister-in-law’s eyes could only be described as mischief; I recognize the look well from my experiences finding it in her sister’s face. Mor raises a brow at me, looking between Elain and Helion. Horror strikes me through the heart.

“Relax,” Helion waves me off with a fiendish smile. “Elain and I were only just discussing your proclivity for tardiness, is all. The Seer says you prefer a dramatic entrance.”

Another giggle from Elain. Feyre’s curiosity leaks through the bond to me.

 _Now that’s a friendship I never saw coming,_ Feyre tells me, and I send a smile back to her in agreement.

“Helion is very funny,” Elain says, surprising all of us by calling the High Lord by his first name so informally. The male in question just grins at her affectionately.

A low growl rumbles through the room, pulling the attention away from Elain and Helion’s budding friendship and to the female’s mate. Lucien lurks in the far doorway, feathers positively ruffled at the sight of a notoriously flirtatious male paying his mate any attention. As soon as the jealousy and protectiveness are there, they’re gone, replaced by a guilty apology.

It’s hard for me to blame the guy. Lucien isn’t trying to be a possessive dick. I’d be one to talk; I spent half of the evening last night grumbling at every male that took a second to admire my mate, and there were quite of few of them.

“Oh,” Helion looks surprised by the turn of events. As another alpha male, he likely scented out the bond immediately. “My apologies, Elain; I didn’t realize you were bonded.”

Elain’s face could only be described as furious. All of the good-natured humor she’d displayed moments ago, fades away and is replaced with a frown. She rises from her chair, shooting her unwanted mate a look; then, she turns to Helion with all the polite courtliness her mother imbued upon her before her death.

“On the contrary, High Lord,” Elain sketches a quick curtsey in Helion’s direction. The male looks positively fond of her. “I am not such, or rather, I have accepted no bond as my own. Thank you for a lovely morning; I must be going.”

To where no one knows. Lucien is wise enough not to follow after Elain, even though every muscle in his body is taut with the desire to do just that. Feyre looks sorry to see her sister go; I know how she’d like for both Lucien and Elain to be happy, together if possible. After five years, we’ve all started to lose hope on the matter.

No one more than Lucien, who relaxes as the distance between him and Elain grows further; the male sighs profoundly and runs a hand through his hair. He turns to Feyre, “I intend to take my leave before dinner; is there anything you’d like me to pass along to Vassa?”

It speaks volumes of their relationship, for Lucien to refer to the queen so informally. The queen’s home has become a second residence of his, varying his time between our beautiful city and the human lands. I imagine it makes it easier for Lucien, to keep the distance between himself and Elain; although, I know firsthand how the bond can tear away at you when stretched too taught over great lengths.

Despite my mixed feelings towards the male, I will grant him one leniency: he’s strong-willed and kind, to give Elain the space she desires.

And a good thing, too. Or we’d have a problem.

Feyre looks mournful to see Lucien go, but my mate would never guilt the male into remaining a bit longer. His presence always puts her sister on edge. “If you could ask Vassa to arrange a time to meet with Helion and me that would be wonderful.”

Hope flares in those tan eyes. “You have something then?”

The other High Lord looks to Lucien, “Something. Try not to get her hopes up.”

“She’s barely any hope left,” Lucien replies, face falling just so.

✵ ✵ ✵

Pleasantries aside, I do enjoy my afternoon with the other High Lord’s the sight of the three of us, and the High Lady to boot, causes more than one citizen of Velaris to stop and stare. They’re polite about it, though; the people of this city are respectful, giving space where it is desired and kind when approached.

Tarquin is delighted by the sights. Velaris is a place of acceptance, where the classes blend together effortlessly in one big melting pot. I can’t say the same of other cities and villages within my court, and I have very little hope that the Hewn City will ever look as diverse as Velaris, but I am proud to show the equality that runs rampant within this city for dreamers.

Helion flirts shamelessly with both the people and us. He turns a poor unsuspecting vendor into a ripe tomato with his advances until Morrigan steps in and saves the male from the High Lord. Still, Helion remains on his best behavior—sensual though that best behavior is.

Cassian and Amren trail along with us, Varian forever nipping at the female’s heels. Azriel is noticeably absent, but with the recent break-in, it’s to be expected. The High Lords have the decency not to bring it up; had the other males still been in attendance—or worse Beron or Tamlin—I’d likely have had some navigating to do.

Cauldron, what a terrible time it was for an assassin to appear.

A snort, but it isn’t aloud; the noise trickles down the bond to me, and my eyes flick over to where Feyre is leaning against the railing, explaining to Tarquin how she became the Defender of the Rainbow. Even now, even mated to me, the other male watches her with rapt attention. Feyre is a force of nature; it’s hard to take your eyes off of her.

 _Something funny, darling?_ I ask. Another snort.

 _Is there ever a good time for an assassin?_ She replies, and I can feel the sly grin that comes with the words. _Would you prefer to schedule their appearances? How about next Tuesday; I have an opening in my schedule._

I laugh, just managing to keep the sound within me. Mor must notice; she shoots me, and then Feyre, an impatient look. I can see her thoughts in her eyes as plainly as if I were to read her mind: you two are ridiculous.

 _Ah, alas. I’m booked for tea with Cassian_. I jest to my mate. _Perhaps, that Friday?_

Before Feyre can respond, Helion draws near me and strikes up a conversation about trade possibilities. With my High Lord duties beckoning, I set aside flirting with my mate and give the other male my full attention.

 _Poor baby, High Lord_ , Feyre coos down the bond, taunting.

 _Wicked mate_ , I tell her.

✵ ✵ ✵

Time flies when you’re having fun, they say.

Everyone always leaves out that time flies regardless. Fun or not.

It’s a few days later that the little store window catches my eye; I’m on my way to surprise Feyre at her art gallery. I’ve spent the morning brokering peace between two disgruntled merchants, and I could use the pick-me-up of Feyre’s lovely smile before heading on to my next meeting. With Azriel.

I don’t have the time to spare, but once I catch sight of the little display of shoes and ribbons and lace, I find that I’m incapable of doing anything other than walking over to take a closer look. I’m the High Lord; I can be late, right?

In the window, shelves lined with a luxurious grey velvet display a variety of teeny, tiny shoes in various colors and styles. The person responsible for this collection of items knew what they were doing; equally small socks are set out as well, some lined with lace and others with adorned with ribbons.

It’s a collection of heart-warming items, and my mind goes wild with visions of the future. Despite all the color and frills, it’s the simple, elegant black pair of shoes that catches my attention. They’re perfect.

We haven’t conceived yet, but not for lack of trying.

“Something that you need to share with the family, Cousin?” A familiar voice asks from behind me. I look up and into Mor’s amused chocolate eyes; she grins, hopeful.

She knows about our plans, of course; I can’t keep a secret from the female, and I know Feyre’s likely shared the news with her as well. I roll my eyes at her knowing expression; I wonder if she’s told the others yet.

“I was just admiring the colors,” I drawl, leaning away from the display and nodding in the direction of a blood-red pair. An exciting choice for a baby. “Those would look lovely on Amren, I think.”

Pray that she never learns I said that. Mor throws her head back, laughing, and I smile at her joy. It’s taken a while to regain her trust; the distance between us was been earned, even as we both knew the decision to open the borders to Keir was necessary. The male has yet to take me up on the deal, and I wondered what he was up to. I’d need to venture into the Court of Nightmares soon.

“Damn,” Mor laments. “I was hoping this was a sign!”

I share a frown with her. These things take time, of that we both know. If only Feyre could share our understanding, the last time her cycle had arrived, I’d found my mate forlorn and heartbroken on the bathroom floor. She said she was afraid of my disappointment; how guilty I’d felt, to find her torturing herself so, for something that wasn’t her fault.

“Not for lack of trying,” I echo my earlier thoughts, and Mor groans.

“You two are impossible,” my cousin announces. Then she changes the topic. “Are you free to get lunch with me?”

I think of Feyre and how I longed to see her. I could survive a few more hours without her, I thought; Morrigan’s presence was much rarer these days. “Of course,”

We settle in for a meal at our restaurant of choice, and Mor orders all of our favorites, far more than either of us can eat in a sitting. The food is delicious, and my company is lovely if trying. My cousin lives to poke and prod at me, and as much as I promise to never speak to her again, I can’t fight the smile that breaks out when she tells me that I love her.

I do, of course. She’s my family, the only blood relative I have left.


End file.
